Why am I writing here? That’s a good question and one posed to me by my husband. I have a “writer’s blog” I’ve had on WordPress dot com for close to a decade, and several other blogs I publish as well.

Why here?

Do you want an honest answer?

No one is reading here.

When I am write on this site, I can let my hair down and not worry about the expectations set by the people who have subscribed to me via email on my blog. A blog that has seen me grow as a person and a writer.

Forget about the corporate sponsors. Forget about Google page rank. Forget about SEO/SEM and all of the promotions I have to do as part of my role as a working writer.

I can just write.

And really, that’s all I want to do. Just write. I want to share the thoughts that flitter and flutter about my head without recrimination. In fact, I have a list of things I want to get off of my chest. It’s funny, if the stuff I wanted to write about literally sat on my chest, I would have a heaving bosom. One of those people want to crawl into and be comforted by.

Seeing as how I am already the worlds best hugger, I think having that type of bosom would clinch the title for me.

That train of thought. The one right up there ^^^ is why I need an outlet.

In this modern ultra-PC world where everyone is so uptight about what you’re writing, I am stifled by lack of artistic expression. I cannot share what is on my mind a great deal of the time, because if I were to do that, I wouldn’t be the right choice. For a long time, being the right choice really mattered to me. And I have been miserable.

How miserable?

This past Monday, I said I quit. I’m still not sure what I am quitting, nor why. But I was driving down the road and it just came out. I’m not sure if I would be going too far if I said it came out like explosive diarrhea.

All of that glorious bodily function sexy talk aside, I am here because I am a writer. I don’t care who is reading. I care that I am writing, and for now that has to be enough.

When Jack Kerouac wrote “On the Road,” he did it on telex paper so he didn’t have to stop writing long enough to replace the paper in his typewriter. This led Truman Capote to take a jab at Kerouac and say, “That’s not writing, it’s typing.”

Tuesday I was writing by hand, not typing. I sat in a coffee shop in Charleston, South Carolina and wrote longhand until my right hand cramped so badly I was forced to stop. What I have is 10 rough pages of a new chapter in my book.

We lose something when we’re not writing longhand. Writing is a sensory experience. I love nothing more than the feeling of my pen scratching on the paper, the sight of ink on my fingertips, and actually feeling the words flow out of me in script that is somewhat illegible, yet beautiful.

When I am stuck, or feel as if I’m not making progress, I write longhand. There are times I don’t want to touch my keyboard. Plenty of other times, I’ve been distracted by the glowing beacon of connectivity to the outside world on my laptop, otherwise known as the internet.

You see, my greatest downfall, at times, is being allowed internet connectivity. For all intents and purposes, I’m an introvert, and the internet was made for people like me to be able to truly communicate without feeling overwhelmed. However, it’s easy when I feel stuck, to get online and waste hours, when I should be taking a walk to clear my head, or get rid of some energy.

Believe me, the cycle is vicious.

All of this is why I didn’t take my laptop to Charleston and only carried notebooks and pens. While my hand might have cramped to the point I needed my husband to massage it, I was insanely productive. There were no distractions. It was just me, my notebook, pen and the smells and sounds of the espresso machine offering up a steady stream of legally addictive stimulants to the masses.

While it wasn’t a smoky cafe in Paris, it is a setting seen so many times throughout history. Writers hunched over a small notebook, scribbling away, drink forgotten on the table. It is symbolic. Literary inspiration, or gasoline.

But, when we boil it all down, the distractions and flirting around with our work, or, horror of horrors, not writing, what we really have is a serious lack of self-discipline. If you’re a lazy writer, nothing will ever come of your career, because while you may say you’re a writer, if you’re not putting words down in some shape or form, it’s time to re-evaluate.

Of course, we all go through things like writer’s block and creative slumps, but that’s okay. When I have found myself in those situations, I do things to keep my writing anything. Mainly lists of things I want to do around the house, followed by trying to check those items off said list. Personally, it helps to get out of my head and do manual labor of some kind. If I’m really stuck, I’ve waged a war with dust bunnies where I wind up with immaculate floors.

What I am really trying to say is, the notebook and pen are good for me. They allow me to be free from distraction and to get back to the core of writing as my predecessors have done for centuries. And if that doesn’t work, I invite you all to come watch me battle the dust bunnies.

I’m sitting here, knowing I have a perfectly good blog to write on located in a different dimension. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of desire to write there. I’m not sure it’s who I am any more. Let’s call this part of some existential crisis I am having as a writer.

You see, I think that’s the problem. I am a writer. I started blogging back in the hinterlands of 2002 to keep our family updated with our lives in towns far away from them. Call me the original mommy blogger, who only writer to update family. That blog is still out there, but it’s anonymous and has some pretty funny stories about my now 14 year-old son.

I’ve changed. I have to write, but I’m not 100% sure what I’m supped to be writing these days. What I do know is that, more than anything, I want to write and not be beholden to some brand, or PR person, who doesn’t really give a flip about me, or what I think.

I am not just a blogger. I’m a writer. When I get down and nitty gritty, truly using my voice, I’ve had people tell me I was their “Judy Blume.” Which is, in my opinion, the highest compliment a girl could be given.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost my voice. Like Susan, it’s desperately being sought. Instead of the superfluous, I’m seeking the importance. Those words which flow from me, dark, thick, and melodic, like molasses from an old mason jar.

Like any good storyteller, I’m pretty sure that once you’ve lost sight of how to tell your own story, the stories of others won’t come either.

Sure, I’ve joked about what’s going to make me a better writer in my bio, but none of that matters. What matters is my butt being in the seat and the words coming out of me. And writing, for me, is like air. I need it to live.

It’s funny, I had a conversation with my son about my writing. He asked “Mom, what’s more important, commercial success or writing?” My answer was, and always will be, writing. Acknowledgement would be nice, but I have to get it out of me. I just don’t know what the “it” is.

And that, my friends, leaves me feeling leaden. I have to get it out, I’m just not sure how.

I’m thinking about writing while listening to The Beatles’ “White Album” and sitting inside on this sweltering North Carolina day. There are days you have to sit down and write. It’s like literary diarrhea spewing out of you.

Honestly, that’s possibly the grossest thing I’ve ever written. Sad, but true. I can’t believe it’s still sitting in this post, waiting on people to read it — a gleaming beacon of WTF?

I have been thinking a lot about writing, the process of other writers, and what I can do to be a more successful writer. I’m not talking about the monetary side of writing, seeing as how that’s something deserving pages of thought. Instead, I think about what I can do to get more words down on a page while improving my technical skills and voice.

My best voice is a strong first-person narrative. It’s who I am. I’ve been told this is the voice I should always use and never veer from. Yet, if I’m being frank, I’m jealous of y’all who write so well in third person. The article writers and classically trained journalists who can bang it out with no “I” attached to it. Oh, I know the “I” is there because that’s your work, but you have to leave so much of it devoid of feeling and that personal touch. Constantly writing the inverted triangle is soul-sucking, at least for me.

Does that even make sense? Like I said earlier, the verbal Tijuana Two-Step is strong with me today. My thoughts aren’t cohesive and are kind of all over the place. Who am I kidding? If you’re still reading, you know they’re all over the place.

That’s when I come here. To dump all of those thoughts — emptying my brain of the scattered leaves floating around — so I can focus on the tasks I need to do for the day. While I realize all days can’t be super productive for writers, I know that if I’m not writing, I’m miserable.

Lately, I’ve been pretty darn miserable. But, of course, it’s been that way for quite a few years. I’m happiest when I’m pounding the keyboard, letting the words flow, and thinking creatively. But I’ve had a few things get in the way — self-confidence, fear, my coffee not being the right temperature, pencils aren’t sharp enough, PMS, nails tapping too loudly on the keys, or aren’t loud enough. You name it; I’ve tried it.

So here I sit, processing what I want to write about, how I want to write about it, and questioning why I am not writing. We can talk about the projects we are working on all day long, but until we’re sitting down, bleary-eyed, unshowered, and alive, pushing ourselves to the limit to get every single word out, we’re not writing. It’s that point when you think you don’t have anything in you, and then it roars out of you like a lion, time stands still, and it’s just you in a vacuum, alone with your words, your keyboard, and you’re pushing to capture it all. Sleep can wait because if you stop and your muse does not, you’ll lose the glorious train of words pumping down the tracks, racing to get to the next town on time.

At least, that’s what writing is like for me. I have to do it. I didn’t choose to do it. Writing chose me. I’ve often wondered, in my past lives, who I was. Was I a writer continuing my path here on this great big rock? If so, who was I? Do I find myself attracted to their work? Do I find it difficult to read, so I’ve never finished these novels of my past? I know I expect a lot from me now — and it’s time to give me, and my writing, the respect it deserves.